


domestic(ated)

by dreamingofstatic



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Intimacy, Kidnapping, Non-consensual Drug Use (mentioned), Obsession, Other, Stockholm Syndrome, dw it's not mentioned in detail, jeremiah is still a CREEP, kinda??? you don't like him but you've stopped hating him, well as close as you can get in this situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26523361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingofstatic/pseuds/dreamingofstatic
Summary: You know how used Jeremiah is to having people around that are subservient, those who have devoted their lives to him. Loyal people. Despite everything, his twisting words and many, many attempts to keep you under his thumb, you know his goal is simple. Jeremiah likes things to be familiar.it's amazing how quickly fearful situations can begin to feel normal.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska/Reader, Jeremiah Valeska/You
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	domestic(ated)

**Author's Note:**

> okay first things first  
> is this compliant with the canon timeline????? no. does it exist anyway????? yes.  
> quarantine sucks. hopefully this can help somebody somewhere feel better, even just a little bit.  
> once again, this is lawless territory that god has abandoned, but i tried to keep him as in-character as possible (hopefully i succeeded lol). it is definitely less,,,,, intense than my other work, and it doesn't take place in the exact same universe, but feel free to imagine that if that's what you fancy.  
> hope you enjoy!

“Do you want me to make you a cup of tea?”

Jeremiah’s fingers ghost over your shoulders, sending a shudder down your spine. They trail, softly, down the length of your arm, splaying palm-down on the cold metal table. His chest presses into your back, his face inches away from your own as he looms over you. 

“No,” you whisper, almost unable to muster the breath required to speak. “No, I’m fine.”

“What are you reading?” He doesn’t move.

“Uh...” you turn over the cover of the book currently positioned in front of you, “ _Thesis on the Creatures of Myth._ I found it on the bookshelf in your room.”

“ _Our_ room,” his voice is chastising. “I don’t remember purchasing that particular novel. Ecco must have picked it up for me somewhere.”

Jeremiah moves to sit beside you, pulling out one of the metal chairs that surround the dining table. He looks surprisingly tired, eyes rimmed with red, abnormally pale skin washed-out under the LED lights. You look him up and down, noticing he’s forgone his more flashy attire for a simple button-up shirt and suspenders. Everything about him looks ruffled, like his latest project is taking a heavy toll on his strength. Pallid, a walking spectre. He pushes his bangs back with a gloved hand, gaze flicking to the bowl of instant noodles positioned next to the book you’re reading.

“You don’t have to eat that garbage,” he frowns. “Ecco could make something, if you wanted. Or I could try to cook for you.”

“I don’t trust anything you’d make me.” 

He had drugged your food during the first week of your stay here, something that had left you with frequent headaches and dizzy spells. It had resulted in you fasting as best you could for another week, stealing fruit from the fridge and refusing to eat anything that wasn’t raw. Jeremiah was fully prepared to let you starve or be force-fed, but you eventually found a pack of off-brand instant ramen in one of the kitchen cabinets. They were stale and the sodium content made you feel awful, but it was better than sleeping all day and feeling like your limbs had been filled with syrup.

“Oh, come now,” Jeremiah reaches a hand out to cup your cheek. “You’re not going to let a little thing like that _kill_ you, are you?”

“You don’t-, I mean, you were poisoning me.” 

“I was taking precautions.” His voice is as smooth as sea glass. “I couldn’t have you running away from me, could I?”

“I still might.” You take another bite of noodles. “Haven’t completely ruled it out.”

Jeremiah smiles. His eyes seem to cut right through you, pallid searchlights roaming up and down your figure. It’s unfair for him to look so beautiful, as wretched as he is. You’re unsure how much of his striking face is accentuated with cosmetics and how much is permanent, an ink-blot reminder of his brother’s impact on Gotham. 

“You won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?” 

You know how used Jeremiah is to having people around that are subservient, those who have devoted their lives to him. Loyal people. Despite everything, his twisting words and many, many attempts to keep you under his thumb, you know his goal is simple. Jeremiah likes things to be familiar. 

“You’ve gotten comfortable,” he sneers. 

His attempt to raze the city was to rearrange it, rebuild it in a winding maze where he could finally feel safe. Accomplished, of course, and vain as a peacock, but safe. 

“I could never feel comfortable around you.”

In a strange way, it’s understandable that he sought out the company of a stranger after so many years of isolation. The only thing pitiable about it was that the stranger had to be you, and that the offer to enjoy his companionship wasn’t exactly one you could decline.

“The way you sleep suggests otherwise, my dear,” Jeremiah croons. “You were agitated at first, of course, but now...”

“You watch me sleep?”

“Speaking of sleep,” he carries on as if he hadn’t heard you, “if you’re done with your... mediocre dinner, I think it’s time we both got some rest. Shall we?”

His hand moves from your cheek to your chin, tilting your head to the side so he can press his lips to yours. You’re still awed by how gentle he can be, despite everything. You wouldn’t say that you reciprocate his affection with equal warmth, but you’ve stopped resisting by now. 

“Sure,” you say, tone flat. “Any chance I’m getting the floor tonight?”

Jeremiah’s smile has no humor in it, the trying patience of a teacher whose student has asked the same question a dozen times already.

“No.”

* * *

“Alright, last chance not to be a creep and let me take the floor.”

Jeremiah only raises an eyebrow and pats the space next to him on the mattress. The decorations are sparse, a utilitarian taste that meshes perfectly with the concrete walls and countless schematics littering his bunker. His sense of dress may have become more elaborate, but it looks like he never took the time to update his living space to match. Too busy, you suppose. Planning the downfall of Gotham doesn’t allow for ample free time. You sigh.

“Worth a shot, I guess.”

You slide under slate-colored sheets, your body stiff and uncooperative. You know what’s coming, and it’s no surprise when Jeremiah throws his arm over you, pulling you flush to his body. The heavy weight of him holding you close is uncomfortable, sure, but it’s nothing you aren’t used to by now. It is the unlikeliest bedtime routine you ever thought you would have, yet it’s a routine nonetheless. You take your comforts where you can. You can feel him hum against the nape of your neck.

“You have questions. What do you want to know?”

“The same thing I always do,” you whisper. “Why me?”

His arm shifts so his fingers can card, absentminded, through your hair. It causes a shiver to run down your spine, a reflex that hasn’t yet faded even after all your time spent here.

“What can I say? You caught my eye, my dove. I’ve always had an eye for pretty things.”

“Have you?”

He chuckles, low and deep. It almost feels scary not to be able to see his face, to have no idea what kind of expression contorts his features, vivid in spite of the absence of paint. 

“Does it matter?”

You can’t take the feeling of his eyes on your back any longer. It makes you feel too vulnerable. The motion is awkward, but you turn over, pressing your face into his chest. It takes him aback, judging by the startled sound he makes, but he takes the opportunity to draw you even closer. There’s still the lingering trace of his cologne on his skin, something fresh yet chemical. 

“There’s a surprise,” Jeremiah grins. “Finally coming around to me, are you?”

“You wish,” you grumble. “I don’t like the feeling of you watching my back.”

“My heart,” he says, the teasing edge draining from his voice. “Is it not reassuring?”

“No.”

He doesn’t say anything else after that, but you can feel his fingers tighten their grip on the back of your shirt. Sleep does not come quickly, but you are loath to find you do not wake once the entire night.

**Author's Note:**

> my personal headcanon is that Jeremiah's bedroom looks like an IKEA display room but with 10% of the decorations and 100% of the "feels like nobody has ever lived here except for 30 minute increments" vibe


End file.
